A man must fill his life with meaning, meaning is not automatically given to life. It is hard work to fill one's life with meaning. That I do not think you understand yet. A life filled with meaning is worthy of rest. I want to be worthy of rest when I am no longer here. Do you understand what I am saying?
-The Chosen

3/21/2007

The Beautiful Things

I've been in a funny mood the last day or two. I've been wondering how a Christian should interact with things that are beautiful and transcendent. If you think about it, there isn't a whole host of guidance in this area from Scripture, especially when it comes to secular things. Anyways, I plan on writing an article about it. Until then, I want to do two things.

First, I want to post a few video clips, so you can see some of the things that I think are beautiful. There are more, of course, but these are just a few I happened to grab. Let me know what you think! #4 is my favorite.

Second, I'm curious about what YOU think is beautiful! If you read this, leave me a comment or send me an e-mail with a couple websites or youtube clips to let me know what inspires you, maybe even brings you to tears. I'm curious to see what you folks enjoy. Now that I actually have a few readers, it would be nice to get feedback!

Here are a few things that I think are absolutely beautiful. All four have either inspired me or brought me to tears.

2 comments:

Luis Carlos Reyes
said...

Here is one of my favorite poems. The original is beautiful. I apologize in advance for the shortcomings of the translation.

Possession of Yesterday

I know I have lost so many things that I wouldn't be able to count them, and that those losses, now, are what is mine. I know I have lost yellow and black and I think of those impossible colors in a way unlike that of those who can see. My father has died and he is always by my side. When I want to scan Swinburne's verses, I do it, they say, with his voice. Only he who has died is ours, what is ours is only that which we have lost. Ilion is no more, but Ilion endures in the hexameter that laments it. Israel existed when it was an ancient nostalgia. Every poem, in time, becomes a eulogy. Ours are the women who left us, not subjugated anymore by the eve, which is but anxiety, or by the alarms and terrors of hope. There are no paradises other than paradises lost.